[Welcome to a story with levels of self-indulgence and self-insertion rivalling
those of a BKWillis story.

[I make no apologies for this.

[None of the following should be taken as 'in continuity'; they're my own
doodlings, and can safely be ignored by anyone writing stories in those
continuities.

[Equally, no disrespect is intended to anyone, _despite_ what my evil twin has
to say on the matter.

[Now, here goes...]

---

In Some Other Time Round, the darkside pub outside continuity, Imran Insaneyat
and his Muse, Ellia, sat at a table, both apparently deep in thought.

Under most circumstances, this would have been suicidal, but the denizens of the
Pub Perilous had long ago learned _not_ to bother these two when they were
thinking, for fear of committing their own very particular form of suicide.

Ellia was a pretty brunette in a pale gold dress, the stark lines of her face
throwing her features into sharp relief, making her seem older than her years.

Imran, on the other hand, looked like an Asian Paul Simon, after Paul had
finished chopping up Art Garfunkel and burying him in a toxic landfill.

"Quite simple." Ellia said, her cold smile returning. "We write a series of
vignettes about _our_ alters, ignoring whatever main continuity may exist. A
story that focuses on _us_, and on our own very particular take on cdwa's
worlds, displaying what _we_ make of them."

Imran eyed his Muse. "Of course, there's also the small matter that in doing
this, you're sending a very big 'up yours' to your fellow Muses."

"Did you expect anything else?" Ellia said.

Imran matched her chilly smile with one of his own. "Of course not."

He drew inside, turning the idea over in his mind.. "Yes... I like it. I like
it.

"Now, let me see..."

---

Child's Play, the juvenile detention centre outside continuity.

The doors slammed shut behind young Imran Insaneyat and his equally young Muse.

Imran took in his surroundings with a certain amusement, watching the other
children as they fought, bullied, abused and generally made life hell for each
other. "Ah, home sweet home. Nothing quite like it."

"Over there." Ellia said, indicating a small group of children who, in stark
contrast to the rest of the room, were simply sitting and talking.

Imran nodded, and together they made their way over, being careful to skirt
around the more vicious fights.

A small dark boy with dark brown hair looked up as they approached. "Hey, Imran!
Back so soon?"

"Now this," BK said to the little group, "_this_ is why Imran's one of the best
damn planners we've got."

"I wouldn't say that." Imran noted. "What about that time with Adric, Nyssa, the
candy bar, and the cellular disruptor?"

"Yeah, that _was_ one of my better plans, wasn't it?" BK said. "C'mon, take a
seat, an' I can introduce you to the new kids."

Imran and Ellia took a seat.

"Right." BK said, indicating two young boys - one with a ponytail, thick glasses
that were too big for him, and a deranged gleam in his eyes, the other a larger
kid with a ragged haircut and a long brown overcoat covered in pockets. "This
here's Damned Ceannaideach, and this's his Muse, Bob the Muse."

"Never, _ever_ call me 'Elli'." Ellia said, in tones of utter disgust. "The name
is _Ellia_."

"But that wouldn't be fun, would it?" BK said. "Elli."

Ellia seethed.

"Right." Imran said. "So what's going down?"

BK smirked. "Glad you said that. Seems little Chris's been holdin' out on some
cookies, an' we wanna show him what happens to kids who try cheatin' us..."

Imran smiled. "I have just the thing..."

---

You must understand this.

Allie and Sandra are soul-twins, sharing a mutual soul. Bound together through
perhaps one of the most fundamental connections any can share.

When Nameless was sealed off from the Outside Dimensions, sealed off by the mad
creature that called itself a god, Allie managed to escape.

Sandra did not.

Allie _knows_ Sandra still survives, knows it beyond all doubt.

She knows it, _feels_ it in her soul.

Sandra cannot pass on until Allie dies. As long as Allie lives, so does Sandra.

She cannot die.

But she can suffer.

Oh, she can suffer.

Sandra is in agony beyond anything they've known, they've _ever_ known, an
eternal hell of torment as the mad god toys with its plaything, a plaything that
cannot be destroyed.

And Allie suffers with her, feels her soul-twin's torment, every minute, every
second, waking or sleeping.

She dare not even kill herself, for fear of what might become of Sandra.

This too you must understand.

Allie and Imran share a bond too, a connection - the bond between Author and
Muse, the bond of inspiration that ties them together.

The inspiration he receives now is a terrible thing indeed, inspiration from a
soul in perpetual suffering, unable to create anything _but_ suffering.

He too wishes nothing more than to end their pain - but he cannot, for Allie
would resist with everything in her.

They cannot escape, until the end.

And so, every day, they wait for the end to come.

And so it is that, every day, they watch while Xeffy lights a hundred candles,
listen as she chants in a tongue they do not understand.

The last three candles are always set apart, a memorial for their family.

Ayna. Dominic. Sandra.

It is a perpetual memorial.

It is a perpetual torment.

For all of them.

---

He is a scavenger, nothing more.

Once, perhaps, he was something else, something more...

...but the same could be said of many like him, could be said of the world
itself.

It matters little.

He survives through scavenging - scavenging clothes, food, water, even pieces of
trash he can use for shelter. Anything he can lay his hands on has a use.

Somewhere along the way, he picked up a cat - or it attached itself to him, he
isn't sure. Cats are like that.

It's a scrawny, grey, little thing that survives much as he does, by scavenging.
When he has the chance, he leaves it a little water, scraps of food. Not out of
charity - what does a cat know of charity? - but rather out of a sense of fellow
feeling, a sense that in this life you've got to take what you can get.

There'll come a day, he knows, when it ends up leaving him behind. Kind of goes
for everything round here.

But hell, it's been a lot more loyal than a lot of humans he's known.

Whether that says more about humans or cats, he's not sure, but it's certainly
not flattering.

So he scavenges, and the cat trails along with him, and together they make it
through each day.

One thing, though, he's always sure to keep a look out for, when he can.

Books.

They're rare, these days, rare and precious... but unlike others who seek them
out, it's not the paper that interests him, valuable as it is.

It's the words.

He can read, write, and count, rare talents in these fallen days - a remnant of
his life before - and he indulges those talents as often as he can.

The ancients wrote of many things, things both true and false - and sometimes,
he cannot tell which is which.

They wrote down their stories, the teaching stories, that any with the knowledge
might learn for themselves - and there must have been many who had that
knowledge, back then - but that knowledge was lost in the Fall, lost and
scattered, and the only knowledge that mattered then was the knowledge of
survival.

That, though, he knows. It is the _practice_ - surviving from hand to mouth, day
to day - that is the effort.

When he has the chance, he seeks out one of his caches of books - all widely
separated, so that if one is lost, he will not lose the others - and settles
down by the fire to learn a little more about the world that was.

And now, now...

He found it in what once must have been a house, now tumbledown and ruined, long
forgotten by anyone who might have thought of the place, most of its contents
lost long, long ago, but for the barest handful of things...

...including this.

He wipes the dust off, and reads the High Tongue words written upon its cover.

'Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix'.

He smiles, and places it in his sack.

"Come on, Allie." he says. "It's a night by the fire for us."

The cat lifts its head from the ground where it's been sniffing, and pads along
in front of him as he sets off back to camp.

---

The train pulled away, leaving a small straggle of passengers behind on the
platform.

A young gentleman of Arabic extraction, incongurous in a top hat and frock coat,
his travelling case by his side, looked around himself, at the station, as if
looking for someone.

A young lady, her brown hair tied into a loose bun, her dress of a fine purple
that had seen better days, approached him cautiously.

"Mr... In-a-yat?" she said.

"In-ay-at." he said. "You are... from the school?"

She cast her eyes down, her voice demure. "Yes. I'm Miss Allingham, one of the
teachers. My father is the schoolmaster. He sends his wishes, and hopes you
found your journey to Vortex City a safe and pleasant one."

Mr Inayat's expression became thoughtful. "Is that a question you wish to know
the answer to as well, Miss Allingham?"

"Safe, if not particularly interesting - save for those interesting men who
attempted to hold us up. I am afraid they met with some misfortune shortly after
our brief meeting." Mr Inayat considered. "Forgive me, Miss Allingham, but would
I be wrong in guessing that your family were originally English?"

"I spent some time in England." Mr Inayat said. "Your accent is very much that
of one brought up to speak the Queen's English."

"Is that where you learned your English?" Miss Allingham said, with some
asperity.

"Yes, as well as the years I spent growing up in India." Mr Inayat coughed
politely. "You will, I hope, excuse me if my English is not all that it should
be. I appear to have particular trouble with the dialects they use here in the
colonies."

Miss Allingham's expression grew ever more disbelieving. "And you decided to
take up a position _here?_"

Mr Inayat seemed puzzled. "Why not? I was under the impression that out on the
frontier, there were many opportunities awaiting anyone with suitable talents.
It is not such a huge leap to conclude that such availability of opportunity
would extend just as much to schoolteachers as to any other."

"But why _here?_ Why America?"

"Because, to tell the truth, I have always been curious about the place, and I
wished to see if it was all that I had heard."

"And is it?" Miss Allingham asked.

"...It is not what I believed," Mr Inayat said, after a moment. "Nor is it what
_it_ believes. The difference between what it thinks itself, and what it
actually is, is... quite intriguing."

Miss Allingham's gaze was now one of increasing suspicion. "I see... Well then,
shall we be on our way?"

"As you wish." Mr Inayat said. "I wonder if I might presume upon you to assist
me with my case? It is considerably heavy, and I doubt there are any porters to
be found."

"Very well." Miss Allingham said, taking hold of one end.

Mr Inayat took hold of the other. "Lift on three. One... two... three!"

Miss Allingham gasped momentarily at the case's weight. "What have you _got_ in
here?"

Mr Inayat seemed unperturbed. "The essentials. Clothes, books, one or two
tolietries..."

"Books?" Miss Allingham raised an eyebrow. "I would be careful of them, then.
Some people around here have a tendency to destroy what they cannot use, spend
or trade."

"The advice is well-given." Mr Inayat said. "Shall we be off?"

---

There is a tale they tell on the Thirteen Worlds. It is a tale neither Owl or
Raven alike ever avowed, not least because the rolls of both guilds never
counted any such name as 'Ryman' among their number.

As such, it is told now only by the common folk, who call it 'The Dragon Who
Loved Stories'.

It is told in this way:

Once upon a time, there was a dragon called Alys, a creature of shining scale
and silver wing.

It was her delight to listen to the stories the other dragons told, and to tell
stories of her own in return - for this is truth, that the dragons have their
own stories, stories they will tell each other, in the places where dragons
meet, and such stories are not for the likes of men.

But there were also times when there was no other dragon to be found, and on
those times, Alys would find a great hunger within herself, a hunger for more
stories.

She would attempt to satisfy this hunger by telling herself the stories she had
learned, but such only eased her hunger but a short while.

She attempted to satisfy it by telling herself stories she herself created, but
such only deepened her hunger to hear the stories of others.

And so, on a time, she would take on the form of a woman and walk among men, to
hear the stories that men tell each other and the dragons never hear. She would
tell them her stories, the stories she had created herself, that neither dragon
or man had ever heard.

And then, when she had learned as many stories as she could, when her hunger was
satisfied, she would return to the places only the dragons go, to share her
stories with her fellows.

Now, it came to pass that, four hundred years nigh the coming of Talisein, was
there a bard called Ryman.

It was said of him that he had been a bard high in the estimation of the Owls,
until they had learned he told the tales of the Ravens, and sent cyngael to kill
him, though they had been unable to find him.

It was said of him that, on a time, one or two of the Ravens would stumble upon
him, and were greatly disturbed when they heard him telling the tales of the
Ravens in public, with no fear for his safety.

It was said that there was a Raven bold enough to ask him why he did so.

He said to her "Truth in stories lies wherever it may be found, whether it be in
Owl or Raven. I have found as much of my truth in Owl as in Raven... and as many
falsehoods, as well.

"Remember this, too: it is said that both owl and raven were birds of Merlin's,
once on a time."

She grew disturbed at this, for no tale she had heard, be it Owl or Raven, had
ever dared to claim theirs was a bird of Merlin's - but when she tried to press
him, she found he had disappeared she knew not where.

She spread word among the scattered Ravens, to watch for Ryman, to question him
if they could - but from that day forward, no Raven ever met him again.

And this is why the telling of this tale lies beyond Owl or Raven.

For in this time, Alys had taken on the form of woman again, to hear the tales
of man - and was disturbed to learn of the purge of the Ravens.

Still and enough, though, the ways of the dragons are not those of men, and Alys
knew that this, too, would pass, as all must pass - but still, it disturbed her.

Now, it came to pass that in her travels, Alys chanced upon a tavern at the side
of the road, and took a place to hear the bard, a dark man with darker eyes.

But when he rose to speak, the tavern fell silent - for the tales he told were
tales of both Owl and Raven, told without regard for which might be which, and
those who heard knew that death, in the shape of the Owls' cyngaels, must surely
follow him.

And so, when he was done, his only answer was silence.

But Ryman, as indeed this was, had known this from the outset, for it was the
answer he had received across the worlds.

And so, as he had done every time before, he made his farewells and left.

When he was no more than halfway down the road, there came a voice from behind
him.

"I would speak with you."

On that, Ryman ran, ran without heed or pause, until the voice had been left far
behind.

Then he heard it again from behind him.

"I would speak with you."

Tired and weary, near to exhaustion, Ryman nevertheless ran again, until he
stumbled to the ground, unable to run no further.

And again, the voice came from behind him.

"Please. Let me speak with you."

"What are you?" Ryman asked.

"Turn around." the voice said.

And Ryman did, whereupon he beheld a pale woman, garbed in silver.

"What are you?" Ryman repeated.

"Men call me Alys," the woman replied, "and I am one with a love of stories."

"What are you?" Ryman said for the third time.

"Look upon me and know." Alys said.

With that, she dropped her guise of humanity, and showed him the dragon-form all
men knew.

Had he the breath, Ryman would have knelt in awe, but instead he could but watch
and stare.

"I am called Alys, the silver." she said. "I am called the Dragon Who Loves
Stories.

"I have chosen to walk among men in a shape of flesh, and I have sore despaired
at what has come to pass these years gone past.

"For the Owls seek out those who tell stories of the Ravens, and put them to
death.

"And the Ravens, though they may tell stories of the Owl, have no love for them,
only their own.

"You are the first bard I have discovered in all the worlds who loves the
stories of both, Owl and Raven alike."

And Ryman was dumbfounded at the sadness he saw in her face.

"What would you of me, Lady Alys?" he asked. "I am one man, and a storyteller at
that."

"You are a storyteller." Alys replied. "I too am one with a love of stories.

"I would travel with you awhile."

"I am no Blaise." Ryman protested. "I am no Gwion or Merlin, to receive this
honour."

"Would you refuse me?" Alys said.

"I sought no dragon." Ryman said. "Such a thing is not for one like me.

"But it has been a long, long time since there has been another who I might
speak with. None will speak with a bard who tells stories of Owl and Raven
alike, who finds his own truth in their tales.

"It has been a long, lonely time, Lady Alys, and I am weary of it.

"Leave me be or kill me, for I will have no dragon."

"Very well," Alys said. "Close your eyes."

This Ryman did, awaiting what must surely be his death.

Then he felt a hand - a human hand - resting on his own.

He opened his eyes, to see Alys, in woman-form, standing in front of him.

"Did you not hear me?" he said. "I will have no dragon."

"No, you will not." she said. "That I promise.

"You are the first I have met with such a love of stories - the first in a long,
long time - and I would fain not kill such as you.

"But it has been a long, lonely time for me as well, and I too grow weary.

"So I ask you this: would you have a companion? One who will walk your road with
you, will share stories with you, will talk to you, as one storyteller to
another?

"Would you have that?"

"...Yes." Ryman whispered. "Yes, Lady Alys. I would have that, if that is what
you offer me."

"I do."

"Then so shall it be."

And Ryman and Alys left that place together, hand in hand.

It is said that from time to time, two storytellers will arrive at a tavern, one
a dark man with dark eyes, the other a pale woman garbed in silver.

They will tell stories, stories of the Owl, stories of the Raven, stories long
lost and stories never before told, and then they will leave.

And it is said that they are Ryman and Alys, still walking the Ash after all
these years.

But then, the common folk say many things...

---

"I dub you Sir Niram," Arthur said, "and make it known that you are now the
hundredth knight of my Round Table."

He glanced over at Guinevere, who'd happened to remind him of that fact a little
before the ceremony, and saw her give him a quick nod of approval.

"My lord." Niram murmured.

Arthur sighed inwardly. He hated this bit; it always made him think of those
holo-awards ceremonies, where he happened to have the bad luck to be the host.
"Is there anything you would like to say?"

"Yes, my lord."

Grin and bear it, grin and bear it... "Very well. Proceed."

"By your leave." Narim said, bowing.

He coughed, clearing his throat, and continued. "I would like to take this
opportunity to thank a lady who is very close to me; sadly, though, she cannot
be with us today, as she is currently on service at Sherwood Station."

Arthur blinked. How come he...? Dammit, this was what he got for skimming the
personnel records.

"Without her advice, her assistance, and her encouragement, I believe that
today, this day, would have been much longer in coming.

"Therefore, this day, I would like to give my deepest, most heartfelt thanks to
the Lady Illea, and pray that, through the grace of God and the Crowns, we shall
in time be reunited."

If Arthur could, he would have placed his hand over his eyes. He was
_definitely_ going to have to talk to Guinevere about this personnel
situation...

---

Marin Tayani dusted himself down, and looked at the unconscious body on the
floor.

"How many assassination attempts does that make now?" he said.

"Counting assassination attempts, murder attempts, deathtraps, ritual combats
and wild animal attacks... there have been exactly one hundred attempts on your
life since you became CEO of Tayani Industries." Allie replied.

Marin blinked. "A hundred? Already?"

"Yes, sir." Allie said. "I should also point out that the aforementioned total
is approximately 4.13 times higher than the average mean for assassination
attempts on a CEO's life over an equivalent period of time."

Marin paused. "Why is that?"

"I couldn't say for certain, sir." Allie said. "However, given what I've seen
since I began service with you, I would hazard a guess that it's... pure
chance." The ninja secretary sounded distinctly unnerved by the idea, as if it
offended her views of The Way Things Were.

"Chance?" Marin echoed.

This time, there was a definite look of distaste on Allie's face. "...It does
still happen, sir, as improbable as that sounds."

Marin considered that. "Hm. Interesting. Make a note of that for future
reference."

"Already done, sir." Allie said, tapping at her PDA.

"Right." Marin said. "Let's hope the 9: 30 isn't about to make it one hundred
and one..."

---

There is a wing of Dunvworpin that even the Matron fears to visit.

The sign by the entrance is simple and unadorned.

'La Famiglia Autore'.

Underneath this, someone has helpfully provided an English translation.

'The Author Mafia'.

In the opinions of those who live inside, this should be sufficient warning.

Fortunately for everyone concerned, it is.

And today, la Famiglia Autore is having a party...

"HAPPY ONE HUNDREDTH!!"

The old man at the head of the table chuckles, coughing a little, his chest
rattling. "Heh. Nothin' to it. You hang on long enough, you make it. Hell, _I_
managed it... check that, _we_ managed it."

He pats the hand of the little old woman next to him, her eyes still clear and
grey after all these years.

She smiles. "That we did. Now go on."

The old man smiles, and rises slowly to his feet.

The dining room quietens.

"Hem." the old man says. "I remember starting in this business way back when...
I can't have been more than twenty, twenty-one... and I've been through a lotta
things since then. Drama, angst, comedy, stupidity... you name it, I've seen it.
Or written it."

This gets a gentle chuckle from the rest of the room.

"But you don't wanna hear an old man ramble on 'bout what he's seen. You wanna
get straight to the good stuff, like the food.

"So I'm gonna make this quick.

"First off, I wanna thank la Famaglia for everything we've done together -
'cause, one way or another, we've done a hella good stuff in our time. I oughtta
know.

"That said, I also wanna give a special thanks to our resident redneck, BK,
who's still fighting the good fight after all these years. Keep it up."

An old man with his hair in a ponytail and a hunting rifle in his lap pumps the
air. "HELL YEAH! AIN'T GONNA LET NO DAMNYANKEES BEAT US DOWN AGAIN!"

The first old man grins. "I wanna thank _my_ famaglia, my ma, for not taking the
computer off a' me when she had the chance..."

More chuckling from around the room.

"And finally, I wanna thank Allie here, my Muse." He rests his hand on the old
woman's again. "And you'd better believe she is, 'cause I wouldn't a' made it to
one hundred without her."

He raises a glass. "Here's to the next one hundred!"

"ONE HUNDRED!!" the Famaglia yells.

---

Magnus and Varne watched as the two students made their way down the stairs,
Imran still grinning his head off.

"100 per cent, Lord?" Varne said.

"He answered all the questions correctly." Magnus said. "I see no reason why I
should not give him the appropriate mark."

"Yes, Lord." Varne said. "However, I was under the impression a full mark from
you was near-impossible to receive."

"In matters of essays and practical assignments, it is. In set questions,
however, it is another matter."

"I seem to remember some misleading set questions, Lord..."

"Misleading, yes." Magnus said. "I would not, however, put in a false question -
I _do_ accept that an answer may be impossible.

"The point is moot, regardless: Imran managed to get 100 per cent on his test,
and that should be an end of it."

Varne thought about this. "Should I mark this on the calendar, Lord?"

Magnus winced. "I would rather you did not, Varne. And do not call me Lord..."

Allie raised an eyebrow. "Sentiment _does_ have its place, you know..."

"Mm." Imran said. "I just get the feeling I'm beating people over the head with
it."

"Which is a step up from omitting it altogether." Allie noted. "Look at it this
way: it's a way of expanding your emotional range. If you go too far, then you
know to scale it back for next time."

"Mm." Imran said.

"So apart from that, you think it's done?"

"...Yeah, I think so." Imran said. "All I have to do is..."

---

SEND

---

Disclaimer: This Time Round was created by Tyler Dion. Some Other Time Round was
created by K. M. Wilcox. Tribulation was created by Joe Wade. King Arthur In
Time And Space, all associated imaginary screen canon, and H. G. Wells Memorial
High School are Paul Gadzikowski's. The Book of Talisein and the Thirteen Worlds
are Helen Fayle's. Dunvworpin and Bob the Muse are Daibhid Ceannaideach's. Imran
Insaneyat, Child's Play, the Badlands, Marin Tayani, Tayani Industries, and
Allie the ninja secretary are all from the mind of B. K. Willis. Vortex City was
created by Scott Gray in the DWM strip 'The Glorious Dead', and expanded on by
Igenlode Wordsmith and myself. Magnus and Varne are Ken Young's. The likenesses
of other authors are their own.

Everything else is mine.

In reading order, it's Some Other Time Round, Child's Play, Tribulation, the
Badlands, Vortex City, The Book of Talisein, King Arthur In Time And Space,
Dragon Lines, Dunvworpin, Then Do That Over, Newman Primary, Look Who's Talking
and This Time Round.

Not counting contributions to seven round-robins - of which two're still in
progress - two awards ceremonies, one co-written fic, and one 'salvage' fic (a
fic created by editing together parts of other fics).

Weeble.

(Of the solo fics, 98 of them - plus the co-written fic and the salvage fic -
are all up on my page at the TTR Archive, totalling 100.)

So where now?

Well, it looks as if I'm going to keep writing TTR fics. I have no idea where
it's going to end.